you know i don't believe you when you say that you don't need me

Last friday I was one degree of separation away from this guy i wanna adore & be adored by: a milestone that could only occur during an astral convergence such as the dj union. And how I love that triple meeting of the fists which symbolizes it! We spent a while trying to identify them: the most slender, carla; the one with the most rings, diego; the one with the most bling bling, cristian.

That night another star had joined the constellation. Thankfully I arrived in time for his set, which evoked the sensations of an era exactly as I had experienced, then forgotten them: dark, complex, luscious, radical, rebellious... dancing, my body traveled through layers of time without ever leaving the present. Hail sir james the historian, storyteller, fellow liquid sky lover, electromusicalgenius; here's hoping he'll stay with us just a little longer.

Our favorite den of perdition, meanwhile, was all summery, fruity, floral. Waves of orange fragrance, which dr. trincado sprayed everywhere between sets, flowed over us intermittently, while argentina's first female dj shimmered by in a gossamer floor-length dress; and an outrageous cornucopia of flowers towered over the bar. Beneath its shade is where that sensational spontaneous striptease took place. Once upon a time, girlontape used to hang out at the blue angel... the gaiety... the pussycat lounge... her friends' burlesque cabarets; and she's been missing them ever since, because few acts are more electrifying than an authentic strip show. This one was a dazzling, voluptuous howl: another tribute to the season of abundance.

The cherry on top was the human league moment. I still see the uncomprehending gaze with which the adorable-being-connecting-me-to-ian-brown met my visceral reaction. Impossible to reach across the great divide of years and decibels to explain where, when, why I first loved that track: boston, suburbia, 1981... teenage girlontape, just landed in alien territory, despairing at those ubiquitous, horridly sincere sweaters with little reindeer, little hearts, little trees, first discovered that hell is other people. One day, alone in her room, she heard You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar... and, whatever. It was kind of cool.

ps. the ro-k obama mix, which I missed out on for reasons my reason does not know, is urgently requested...

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